Liz Jones is Credit Crunched in the end.....

Spartacus_Mills

before_hollywood wrote: »

'The service industries have had it far too good for far too long. We should all start being a bit more demanding and stroppy.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1050893/Am-I-served-No-Im-paying-lug-loft-insulation-upstairs.html#ixzz0jZPxXlIh'

there is a spare desk about 8ft from where i sit, although after your readers become a bit more demanding and stroppy i dont think you'll want it

is she the one that was really nasty about the boyzone fella that died?

That was the corpulent Jan Moir

before_hollywood

Spartacus_Mills wrote: »

That was the corpulent Jan Moir

thanks mate

i wonder if jan needs a lodger? those two sharing a house, car crash tv that even i would watch :rotfl:

Spartacus_Mills

before_hollywood wrote: »

thanks mate

i wonder if jan needs a lodger? those two sharing a house, car crash tv that even i would watch :rotfl:

Dumber and even dumber.

It would be priceless.

Spartacus_Mills

It is outrageous the horror being inflicted on our Liz.

This week she had to stay in a Premier Inn.

http://www.mailonsunday.co.uk/debate/article-1266877/LIZ-JONES-In-I-discover-poverty--foyer-Premier-Inn.html

It's not great being poor in Britain.


The rich have their path through life smoothed and buffed. For the less well-off, everything – even the tiniest of things – is difficult.

Take my experience on Thursday. I drove down from the Lake District to London for work, not thinking I would be unable to book a hotel room because of the cancelled flights.

'Hideous': Liz Jones was not impressed by her stay at the Premier Inn

I rang all the usual places I stay in: fully booked, apart from a junior suite at the Haymarket Hotel that was going for £550, plus VAT, plus internet, plus breakfast. Even I baulked at that.


I finally got a room in a Premier Inn in Kensington. I couldn’t find it, never having had the need to notice it before. I called them. It turned out I was about 100ft from the hotel, but not one member of staff could read a map or even make themselves understood.

‘I am outside Earl’s Court Tube!’ I shouted.

‘Earl’s what? What iz that?’


In the end, the manager fetched an English-speaking guest who tried to talk me down. I got there.


No one would park my car, or knew how I could get to a car park. ‘Can you put my bag in my room while I find somewhere to park?’ I asked the manager. ‘No, we don’t put cases in rooms. This is a budget hotel.’

In the end, Kristina from Latvia took pity on me and watched my case until she ended her shift.


‘I have to be in my room in front of the TV by 8.30pm,’ I told the young Indian female member of staff when I finally returned, looking as though I’d been deployed in a war zone, from parking my car. ‘The debate! The Election!’ I yelled, just like Eddy in Absolutely Fabulous.


I was met with an uncomprehending stare. ‘Get me a glass of prosecco!’ I shouted, and people – normal people, the sort who are used to carrying their own cases and parking their own cars – began to point and stare.
‘Still or sparkling?’ the Indian woman said to me.
‘Sparkling!’ I snapped. ‘It only comes in sparkling!’


My room was hideous, with a sign over the taps saying, ‘Beware, hot water.’ Maybe the people who stay here need these sorts of instructions.

I’d missed the first half hour of the Prime Ministerial debate. All three were white, middle-aged, middle-class.


David Cameron made sure he remembered the names of the questioners and the name of a man in his constituency who came to him with cancer, just to prove he is in touch with the ‘little people’.


I also found it grating he kept mentioning his son, repeating how indebted he was to the nurses who looked after him. All three wanted to make sure they called members of our armed forces ‘heroes’ and ‘heroines’. I mean, come on, let’s just take it as read that polite policemen, good teachers, safe soldiers and lots of kind nurses are a good idea.


Gordon Brown couldn’t remember the names of people, but he sure as hell remembered the names of helicopters. He kept muttering how important it is for old people to be cared for in their own homes. Really? Is it? How revolutionary of him to come up with that.

Only Nick Clegg seemed genuine.


I’m one of the great undecided (I was nearly one of the great unwashed when I discovered my Premier Inn bathroom only had soap that came from a dispenser). I want my life to be easier (tax breaks for married couples!) but I have glimpsed what it’s like to be poor and it’s hideous and tiring and boring.


I’ve been driving a Ka because it’s cheaper than my BMW and I can’t tell you how motorists in London beep me and push me out the way. It’s as though suddenly I’ve become invisible.


My column the other week wondering why on earth people who earn more than £100,000 are always the ones being punished, tutted over by badly dressed BBC news reporters standing outside Westminster, was based on the assumption that only high earners work hard and have stress.


The next morning, after my cold night on a hard purple bed, I rushed through reception, trailing my own suitcase, at 7.30am. There at the purple console was the Indian woman from the night before. ‘Ye Gods,’ I said to her. ‘Don’t you ever go to bed?’

She laughed. She told me what she earns, ‘I am thinking just above the minimum’, and the hours she works; everything’s Premier, it seems, but the wages.


‘Are lots of people rude to you?’ I asked her. ‘Oh yes, it’s quite stressful.’

I asked if she knew who she was going to vote for. ‘When you went to park last night, we put the TV on in reception so you could watch it here. And so I saw some of it, and I thought Nick Clegg was a very nice man.’

Although it pains me to say this, I’m beginning to think so, too.


Read more: http://www.mailonsunday.co.uk/debate/article-1266877/LIZ-JONES-In-I-discover-poverty--foyer-Premier-Inn.html#ixzz0lR8ZKjbm

No one to park her car, how does the poor lamb endure such misery.

vivatifosi

She really doesn't endear herself does she?

My room was hideous, with a sign over the taps saying, ‘Beware, hot water.’ Maybe the people who stay here need these sorts of instructions.

The plebs need instructions far less than Liz needs a reality check and to rein in her spending.

Seriously, I know she's turning into a parody of herself, but how long until the penny truly drops?

wigglebeena

Considering she effectively gets paid for a lack of self-awareness and writing about how badly she behaves... do you think she might be ladling it on a bit. Over-egging the pudding?

I wonder if the Indian lady's account of her stay would dovetail with her own. Daily Mail readers love to read how horrible women are, responsible for all bad things.

poppy10_2

wigglebeena wrote: »

Considering she effectively gets paid for a lack of self-awareness and writing about how badly she behaves... do you think she might be ladling it on a bit. Over-egging the pudding?

Yep. She's clearly a troll, and it works well for her. She knows what the audience expects and she lays it on thick. The more she irritates people the more readers she gets.

vivatifosi

poppy10 wrote: »

Yep. She's clearly a troll, and it works well for her. She knows what the audience expects and she lays it on thick. The more she irritates people the more readers she gets.

You're both right, but if this happened to me, I'd hope that one of my family would sit me down and give me a good talking to. At some point she's got to dig herself out of this mess. Maybe its a rock and hard place thing - she earns her money by writing about her terrible predicament but to get the anecdotes has to spend more money that she hasn't got. After all, how many people on DMPs would look forward to a night in a Travelodge as being their only way of having a holiday?

SingleSue

Well if she thinks that is poor, then she is very, very, very much mistaken.

I find her quite odious and whatever she writes, does not make me want to buy the paper to read the ramblings of a stuck up naughty word...in fact, it makes me want to run a mile away from buying that paper.

The poor thing...having to park her own car and pull along her own cases, goodness knows how she would survive in the real word.

fc123

That article about The Premier in is very odd.....I mean, it's garbled and a bit ranting with almost fake comments just to get a reaction, any reaction from anyone who reads it.

The diary today could be the beginning of the end as she is now in mortage arrears and owes the taxman.

The other day, as I was heading up the M5 at 8am on my way to London, Nicola called me. ‘Um, hi Liz. I don’t want to alarm you while you’re driving and on your way to work, but a woman just turned up – she’s still here, actually – and she says she is from the tax office. She says she wants to know where you are, and who I am.’

Oh God, and there was me breathing a sigh of relief all winter that I was snowed in so that no nasty officials or local craftsmen who all seem to charge London prices could pay me a visit. Now everything has thawed there is no stopping them, it seems.

I get to London, and nervously call this woman back. She tells me that she is entitled to make me bankrupt in a day. ‘Oh, really, is that absolutely necessary?’

Then, today, my building society called me. ‘Mrs Jones?’ ‘Miss!’ I hiss. ‘Miss Jones, it seems you are £15,000 in arrears with your mortgage, and so we are now taking steps to evict you.’ Crumbs. She has arranged for a mortgage arrears lady to come and see me. We are
due to meet in the Little Chef just before you get to the M5. A Mr Davies keeps calling me on behalf of American Express. ‘Miss Jones,’ he says, almost kindly, and almost daily. ‘Can you not pay something, anything at all?’

So, from the quote below seems she may sell the Somerset farm and buy something much cheaper with a caravan or small house.

I have been racking my brain about what to do. I can’t go on like this. And so I have come up with the idea of buying a very small cottage, or even a caravan, with lots of land and a few outbuildings: great for all the animals, while I don’t need a big house. I only live in two horrible, cold damp rooms as it is (my collection of Vogues, every issue from September 1975, has gone mouldy – it’s a sign, I’m sure of it). I can’t go on with the fear and the panic, to be honest